


Night Vision

by tahirire



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Comment Fic, Gen, Prompt Fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-09-29
Updated: 2010-09-29
Packaged: 2017-10-26 05:43:39
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 788
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/279375
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tahirire/pseuds/tahirire
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For the <span><a href="http://spnquotefic.livejournal.com/profile"><img/></a><a href="http://spnquotefic.livejournal.com/"><b>spnquotefic</b></a></span>  meme # 14, <a href="http://community.livejournal.com/spnquotefic/5868.html?thread=418796#t418796">Nightmare</a>: Sam: "Tell the truth. You can't tell me this doesn't freak you out." Dean: "...this doesn't freak me out."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Night Vision

"A little to your left."

Sam starts to point in the correct direction but stops halfway through the movement, realizing the futility. He blows out a frustrated sigh, grabs the rifle from its resting place on the bed, and places it into his brother's searching hand. "There."

 _"See anything?"_

 _"No. Nothin'."_

 _"I think there's a ledge here, be careful."_

 _"I got it."_

Dean grunts, hands already working on field stripping the weapon, fingers moving fast and sure across the complicated workings with no hesitation. "Ain't gonna count if you help me, dude," he mutters, pulling the breech free.

The parts fall from Dean's hands and scatter across the bed in seemingly random order. Sam crosses his arms, holding the urge to collect them into neat piles at bay. Dean is right, but that doesn't make it any easier.

 _Dark damp corridors and crawling insects, bits and shreds of human flesh clinging to the corners of dark tunnels, terrors hidden deep beneath the earth. Dark so black you can't see your hand in front of your face._

"I still don't see what you're trying to prove."

"That I can do this blind," Dean states, enunciating each word slowly, as if he doesn't think Sam will understand. Sam understands just fine.

 _A shout. A crack, the sound of a spinning weapon clattering to dull earth. Silence in the dark. Nothing but the pounding of his own heart._

 _“Dean?”_

 _No answer._

 _“Dean!”_

“Look, I know you’re freaked out, but –“

Dean pauses in his ritualistic demolition to frown. “Not freaked out,” he says, slicing across Sam’s protest with firm finality. Then he pulls the final bolt and the gun separates into two large pieces, one resting in each hand.

Sam swallows hard. “I am,” he whispers. Dean doesn’t seem to hear him.

 _Hands brushing across cloth, pushing the jacket back, feeling for the rise of Dean’s chest. The slick of blood, the strike of a match, light falling on an open wound. Bright blue, venom of the monster. Dean’s eyes, white. Screaming._

Dean sets the two pieces down on the bed and starts to feel for the missing parts. Sam wants to tell him that all the skill in the world won’t keep parts from missing, that he’s not going to find the answers buried there in the inner workings of his craft.

That it’s okay to let Sam make the kills, every once in a while. That he can handle it.

“Dean –“

Dean seems to know his thoughts, even if he refuses to look into his eyes. Sam doesn’t have to be able to read Dean’s expression to hear the guilt, as useless as this exercise, threading the layers underneath his words.

“It could’ve killed you, Sammy. What would I …”

Sam sighs, rubbing the bridge of his nose to stem the dull ache behind his eyes. There’s no point trying to talk Dean out of things, when he gets like this.

 _”God, just – hold on,”_

 _Leaning against the Impala, thumbing through the pages of Dad’s journal, praying to the cold stars._

 _“Sam? Sam,” hands, tugging at his arm, his face._

 _“I’m right here. It’s dead, it’s dead, just –“_

 _“Sammy, I can’t see.”_

Sam takes a seat, watching as Dean reassembles the rifle. It takes him longer than it would have before, but all in all the time is respectable. Sam’s stomach growls. Dean’s been at this for hours.

“Time?”

Sam sighs. “Six minutes.”

“Dammit,” Dean growls, throwing the rifle down. He breathes for a moment, centering himself. Sam can feel the shift of tension in the room when Dean decides to go again.

“Dean, enough,” Sam protests. “You’ve gotta eat, man, and I’m starving over here. Let it go for once.” He throws in the one word he almost never uses with his brother. “Please?”

Dean is so still that Sam starts to wonder if maybe he didn’t hear him, but then he sighs, turning around to face Sam’s voice. “Yeah, okay. Sure.”

Dean pulls off the blindfold, and his eyes are a welcome sight, easing some vague worry that Sam couldn’t quite put a finger on. Sam feels himself smile. “Hi.”

Dean rolls his eyes, tossing the blindfold over his shoulder and pushing past Sam for the door. “Whatever. I might not get so lucky next time.”

Luck had nothing to do with it. Sam knows a lot of things he wished he never needed, but the herbal remedy for monster-venom-induced blindness is one he’s glad he remembered. “Good thing you have me then, I guess,” he says lightly.

Dean stops in the open door to look over his shoulder, serious.

“Yeah. It is.”

Sam nods, taking it for what it’s worth, and follows his brother out into the night.


End file.
